Differences
by wordspank
Summary: This is Stephanie's impression of Raw 24-11. Written in Steph's POV, who's not quite happy, and where there's alot of Trish bashing on her part. (And hints of smoochy) Tell me what you think!
1. Part 1

Differences  
  
PG-13  
  
A/N: Just some burning at the Jericho/Trish angle they're putting up. Ooh, what fun. :) Dedication to those who ABHOR it, and Amanda, my best friend, who hasn't a clue about wrestling still. Written in Stephanie's POV, or rather, alot of the anti-pairing's POV. Based on the recent 24/11 Raw.  
  
After a good bath, a nice cold beverage was just too good for me to pass up.  
  
Tapping my fingers in a rhythm, I realise that I've forgotten something. My eyes dart around as I heartily down my refreshing apple juice, looking for something that would remind me of that something.  
  
The remote.  
  
What wonders it did to me. I could've just worshipped it in my times of need, providing me with countless hours of brain-pleasing moments with just one little push of a button. Ok, ok, I'm acting like the typical male, who can't take their eyes off the TVGuide, who can't quite figure out if they wanted to watch wrestling, or Monday Night Football. That's right! SpikeTV. Raw is on tonight.  
  
I sit in my chair with the glass set beside me on a little table. This is great, because the TV is only a foot away, and I can watch the degress of my once arch-rival Bischoff with much delight. Alright, I admit, Smackdown! is not as half as entertaining as Raw now that most of the best players are away. But guilty conscience is what I have learned to conquer as a McMahon.  
  
The screen is a blur as that stupid wheel of his spins around, and the first matches are set. I scoff at the revelation, and I wouldn't be most surprised if the back of the wheel had a midget on a stepstool, twirling it like a little umbrella. Creative my ass. So it was coincidentally Batista and Flair versus Michaels and Jericho. Insistently, I told myself that the pain Flair deserves is already in all the peroxide that he puts in his hair. I hope it stings like five bitches, you SOB slimeball. And Jericho, good for nothing... good for nothing... I suddenly can't think of what to say.  
  
Dammit.  
  
So anyway, I continue watching through the hour. I'm a bit sour at Matt's transfer to Raw because the roster on Smackdown! is as bare as the backside of a baboon, and I can't do anything about it. The cage match was alright, but nothing beats Eric's face grating against it like cheddar cheese. I'd better stop talking about him. I might have to grate my own face if I even had to think about him again, in addition to his butt-monkey face on TV.  
  
I continue critizing every detail of the show until I see an actual midget being pursued by Rosey. I think to myself again about the one behind the wheel, then start critizing silently again, frowning and pouting limitlessly to my own liking. I think those were one of my silly rejected ideas in the past.  
  
I laugh at Matt's reaction to 'strange bedfellows'. Then again, why am I not surprised that nobody really understood the concept? I sit up a bit, eyeing and sipping my juice, halfway scowling at Trish Stratus in the rectangular box. I audibly 'hmph' at her, and quoting from Jackie from That 70's Show, I wish I could pop that inflatable bitch and just watch her fly around the room. Never liked her, never will. Now, I sip my drink in millilitres, intently watching. Something's going to happen, my intuition tells me, and I'm not going to like it.  
  
Then Inflatable Barbie meets Y2J: the Teenage Years.  
  
Ugh, that slut! That trashy, no good slut! Her beady eyes all over my Jeri... Over not-my-Jericho. If you wanted to change the stipulations, you could just SLEEP with the Manager! Isn't that what you do all the time? Angst-filled me stares at the screen wide-eyed, then bug-eyed, when she kisses him. Raw is live. It is happening now.  
  
I instinctively spit all my juice onto the television, whether it's because of shock, or to save myself from choking to death, but I quickly fetch some kitchen towels and wipe off the screen in record time. Nobody kisses Chris Jericho except... Someone else. My jaw drops to the floor as she tells him that she would do something very nice for him after the show if he aided HBK.  
  
What kind of f-ing line is THAT?  
  
As the show continues I see Chris at the Manager's office again. When Bischoff mentions,  
  
"You must really have fallen for her"  
  
I blow my top and scream at the top of my lungs, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"  
  
I'm quite sure in a few seconds time, the little old lady living across my apartment will knock on my door and tell me about using foul language so liberally. I simply do not give a fuck. Seriously.  
  
Jericho exits and he looks confused. "I hate you!" I shout, but no louder than the obscenity I yelled earlier. "I hate you, you bastard!"  
  
There is a rap on my door.  
  
"I don't CARE, because my boyfriend is an idiot on TV!" I scream, then realise that I had called Chris Jericho my boyfriend. I sit back down on my sofa immediately, considerably quieter. The rapping on my door stops. The lady must've gone to see who is my boyfriend on the television. The thing was, I have no boyfriend at all, and I said what I said. I cool down for a bit, then my blood pressure rises to the heights of Mt. Vesuvius when Trish wins her Bra and Panties match, which I so did not need to see. I wish the RTC had come back to put a sack over the head of Little Miss Skank. I become hotter when Chris is relieved that she wins, and asks if they are still on after the show.  
  
In the last match, I see a bullseye on his forehead as my eyes narrow, just waiting for a right time to send that dagger through time and space into that mark. I hope he drops dead, and I'll never have to see him again.  
  
But as soon as the show ends, I find myself looking into my little book of phone numbers and hammering at the dialing pad furiously. Ooh, I've had it quite up to here. When it starts ringing, I'm just about ready to pop.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"You bastard! What the hell are you thinking?! I can't believe what a whore you are! Your taste in women is so bad, even I have to put purifying salt in my water to see you with them! Yuck! Gross! And to think you have the nerve to go cheat on me like that, you're some kind of fu---"  
  
"Hey, hey, who is this?"  
  
Unfortunately, there is no 'Stop' button for me when I start to scold and diss. I have to give it to him, because he's still quite patient at this point.  
  
"What do ya mean, have we ever BEEN together? I don't even know you, why are you saying this?" he matches my insults and questions word for word, and he's probably looking like a fool talking so fast.  
  
"Don't you 'I don't even know you', Chris Jericho, because there is only one person who knows the real, smart charismatic you, and I'm ready to kick your sorry ass for it, or I'm not---"  
  
"Stephanie?" he completes, and I shut up instantly. "Hello?" I hear some thwapping sounds, then, "Hello?"  
  
"What?" I snap, knowing that I sound like an absolute child, like the old before-being-boss Stephanie.  
  
"Is that you?"  
  
He sounds like he's going to laugh, and I feel like I'm going to cry, becoming so red in the face for nothing. "It's the Angel of Un-Mercy, who wants to exact fresh vengance upon your filthy head, you low-life."  
  
"Trashbag ho."  
  
My mouth falls open and I roll my eyes, contemplating the situation at the same time. "I hate you."  
  
"What's the deal?"  
  
"You're the ho, acting so mousy over your feelings for Trash Slutus," I admit, toning down. "You're Agent Hobag, satiating your primal lust by nailing blow-ups."  
  
"And you suggest I satiate by who else?" he replies coyly, almost like he's hinting to himself.  
  
"Shut up," I say, "Tell me that you're not going to sleep with her."  
  
"Why? It's my life, I'm boss, and hell, you got no reason to be worried."  
  
I 'hmm' to myself and notice a little bit of 1999's Y2J coming in. "Tell me," I demand.  
  
"Ok, I won't sleep with her. I'm not going to anyway. Not ever. You're right about her alias, though."  
  
"Why not?" This time I sound like I WANT him to do that. Mental note: practise vocal tones.  
  
"Woman, you're seriously a fickle mind." I can hear the smirk over the phone. "Because I'm a wrestler in sports entertainment, and people write lines for me to follow to make a plausible story," he answers. Now I'm embarrassed to the hilt. I kind of forgot about that part. "And also because I think she's got an STD or something."  
  
I nearly smile to myself that he joins in the fun of dissing her. Nearly. "You make me quite sick, JERICHO."  
  
"You make me throw up and have indigestion already, MCMAHON," he stresses the same way I did. Then he softens, "You take care of yourself."  
  
"Yeah, you too." I break my act.  
  
After the pause, he says, "Hey look, I gotta go. Don't get any more STDs that you already have."  
  
"Ugh, please, I won't. The only diseases I'll get is from you." A snicker passes over, and I realise what I've said wrong. "Not that I'll ever---"  
  
"It's okay princess, goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight," I end. The line beeps into my ear.  
  
After that, I feel very much happier. The night outside seems a more appealing dark blue, and the air is a bit fresher. I should really call him more often.  
  
After that, a nice cold milk is too good to pass up.  
  
****  
  
A/N: Yes, I hope I got something across. Just my form of comfort to those who completely hates that angle like I do. Hope you liked it. :) 


	2. Part 2

Differences  
  
PG-13  
  
A/N: I didn't want to continue this, but I just couldn't resist. Thanks to Nina, I have another session Stephanie bitching to do, except, a little bit shorter, and maybe not as good as the first. Not that I mind. Hee! Enjoy. Still alot of Trish dissing, and welcome aggression-powered Stephanie.  
  
Part 2, Still Stephanie's POV  
  
This time, I don't forget that Raw is on, and I fetch myself Lay's potato chips to accompany me in the little extravaganza. I remember this time, because I want to see if that Jericho was really a man of his word. I cross my fingers mentally and physically, and switch the TV on.  
  
Just in time. The pyros blow, and I think to myself how stupid it really is to waste so much money on some explosions. On the other hand, my father is so filthy rich, he probably can buy two sections of the Pentagon. I wonder why he never gives me any extra money...  
  
"Too much air time for you," I say to the screen, as Eric Bischoff shoots his mouth off for a little while. I take the time to dig into my chips and wait, until Goldberg comes on. I laugh at him because I remember that he was given a role in the latest Loony Tunes movie. I don't think I can remember when I actually said that I liked or hated him, but for the moment, a good hearty 'Ha' from me is a good hearty breath of relief for the neighbours. My mind shifts back to Raw as Eric comes out to open his trap again. I say again, louder, "Too much air time!" and I raise my hands in frustration. I suddenly realise that I talk to myself very often when I watch TV.  
  
Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. Whatever. "Nobody cares what you think, you buttwipe," and I frown to myself until a familiar start of an entrance, a crash, sounds, and I jump up with mixed feelings. A short little Stephanie inside dances with clogs for Mick Foley's comeback, but then again, another short Stephanie dressed in a black veil thinks of the loss of a Holly. Never was life too simple for me. I have to let go.  
  
I suppress a squeal, waving my hands about like a little girl, then I let out a "Kick his Ass" chant. However, I find myself to be composed sooner than I thought. WWE has a thing about General Managers, and really, I think it's getting quite old. The last thing they should do about that, is bring me back. Maybe I should write in as a crazed fan. I'll probably will do that later.  
  
I munch on more of my junk food, waiting for some draggyness, in my opinion, to pass. Test is now quite annoying to me. I can't believe I almost married him. I would hate to say this, but thank goodness Triple H whisked me away for a short while. I will later wash my mouth out with soap and detergent for saying that. As the match continues, I ponder about the Wheel. What happened to the Wheel of Rigged Matches, or the Midget, that Rosie and Hurricane were so bent on capturing? I shudder as a thought slips into my head. What if Rosie squashed the poor little fella with a splash?  
  
I immediately shake that thought out of my head when a scene between Lita and Trish begins. If I were on camera, you could see me visibly straighten, and send red, DarthMaul lightsaber-style lasers into the rays of the television. Why do I always have to see her? Ick, I think to myself, like Trish Stratus was gooey slime that just wouldn't get off my fingers, no matter how much I shake it off or smear it on something. Lita gives Trish a Chris Jericho figure. Well, Trish, ha-ha, you're not the only one with a Jericho figure. I have many different ones that would outnumber your pathetic collection and--- why am I making it seem like I'm so interested in a simple artificial, plastic Chris Jericho? The bimbo began swooning about how well she and Jericho hit it off to her redhead friend, and how they have such awesome times together.  
  
Well, I'll be damned! That double-crosser!  
  
I mumble all sorts of vulgarities and roll my eyes like I always do, and crunch on a chip. I want to say something about her fake tits, but I can't because I know that it will kind of reflect on me as well. Trish gets even mushier, talking about how they shared their feelings on their date and have this really special thing going on between them. She displays a jersey she made just for Jericho, and whines that she would give it to him by wearing it, and then remove it to reveal almost non-existent undies underneath. Trish pretty much indicates that she is going to let Jericho reach home plate, and it really, REALLY... PISSES ME OFF.  
  
I am Stephanie, hear me roar. I am woman, watch me melt her plastic face down with my eyes. I am McMahon, and I'm going to one day get her ass fired. I might also get her ass kicked by me when I'm wearing spiked heels that would just slice and dice, and maybe, just MAYBE, I can really watch her whizz around the locker room like I had wished the last time I saw her on television. Nothing beats fantasizing about things like these. My focus is totally off the show now.  
  
And that Y2J, UGH, that stupid, lying JERK. In fact, I now ask myself why the hell is he only nasty to me. I feel thoroughly displeased, and feel like turning off the set. Even more so when I see them smooching and groping each other.  
  
I want to throw up. No, really. I want to throw up and cry.  
  
Team J-rish, as I call it, fights fashion misunderstandings Rico and Jackie. Internally, I want both Barbie and Ken to lose horribly. How? I want glass shards and nails strewn across the ring. I want Batista and Randy to get out there and make themselves useful by giving the so-called Ayatollah and the dollar-whore powerbombs and pumphandle slams, and I want both their faces to be torn to shreds. "I hate you BOTH!" I shout, but unfortunately, nothing changes, and J-rish wins. I decide that I will call him straight after the show like I did the last time and virtually slap him.  
  
The voices of HIM and Christian snap me out of evil thoughts. I specially point a particular finger at the screen, while I curl up in the corner of my sofa, wishing that the cameramen and the company would stop torturing me. This has to stop.  
  
And it does.  
  
What's this? Christian says he would seal the deal with Lita tonight, bragging about how lovingly she looked at him when he helped her to the back earlier. Jericho says... Jericho says he's been putting the moves on Trish with success for weeks.   
  
I brighten. Suddenly, I don't feel as sick as I did.  
  
He states she was pathetic for falling so easily for his pick-up lines and like old times, mocks her for believing they have a special relationship. "YES!" I shout, as I get up on my sofa and bounce away. Christian predicts Jericho wouldn't make it, claiming that "Trish's legs are locked shut at the knees."  
  
What? Oh Christian, shut up already. Locked shut at the knees? Oh please! Throw a quarter to the ground and those legs fly right open like saloon doors. She'll do anything for less than a dollar. That's how much my dad paid her. Oh, wait, he didn't even need to pay her. I guess business woman doesn't quite fit 'Jobs Trish Stratus Can Do'. I guess all she can really do now is trash collector, 24-hr stripper, and hobo. Oh, and being inflatable and all that, quite a good life buoy.  
  
But Jericho insists Trish is ready to put out for him, and again mocks her as pathetic for believing he really cares about her. I grumble to myself for one moment, reaching down to throw my bag of chips at him, saying, "Shut up! You don't want her! You want me!"  
  
I slip and fall over, realising what I've said.  
  
He promises to tape his sexual encounter with Trish and show it on the Highlight Reel, saying it'll be hotter than the Paris Hilton sex tape. Fat chance, buddy. It was clear from their conversation that this whole romance deal was a bet between Jericho and Christian over which one could bed their legs-wide-open partner first. Chris, that's a really stupid bet.  
  
A shot of Trish listening in fills me up again with complete glee. She is reduced to tears, and I can freely say "Whee!" and laugh at her, doting on her misfortunes. Looks like Jericho's all grown up again, and he's really not just being nasty to me. I can imagine a crowd doing a huge wave, cheering and celebrating. But then again, I knew I couldn't count on him. He said he wouldn't sleep with her.  
  
In the next match, I wear a huge grin, and the issue slips my mind. Instead, I'm busy admiring the different physiques in the ring, and secretly oogle RVD and Randy. Silly me.  
  
I dial the buttons when the Raw copyright thing appears. "Hello!"  
  
"You are?"  
  
"Look at the number, you idiot," I say.  
  
"Ah, with you, I'll never need to look at the Caller ID," he comments, probably just out of the shower. I involuntarily blush at the possibility. "Let me guess. You caught all that hot, unmissable action at home again."  
  
"I'm sure you understand that I abhor you very much, especially with that Trashus Slutosaurus thing stomping around."  
  
"Yeah, well, I sense a bit of jealousy here. Although, if you were here, you could find her. Just follow the trail of a new river running on the ground from the women's locker."  
  
"So, the story of Trish and Chris ends," I tell him, hoping so.  
  
"Actually, I don't really know. If you'd get your fat ass over here, we can do a threesome thing. I'm all for it."  
  
I reply, "Eew," but he isn't done.  
  
"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I can make it a two way thing." He sounds like he wants to explode in laughter. I feel myself get hotter. Perhaps that's not the right word. "Anyway, what do you want?"  
  
"Nothing," I mention absently. "I think you're so sick. But I also think that you're a good actor, and you often disgust me by making me compliment you."  
  
"I didn't make you."  
  
"I want to pound your ass, Chris Jericho, for even wanting to sleep with her."  
  
"I know you want to be my health consultant and tell me that it's not advisable to sleep with anyone with diseases, and that you're very eager to pounce on me every opportunity you have, but Stephy baby, I ain't doing nobody." He laughs and I frown. The wrinkles on my forehead will accentuate, and it's all his fault.  
  
"That's right, for most of it," I say, "And I'm glad that you kept your word; also remind me to fire some writers, and the only lay that you'll ever get is---"  
  
"From you?"  
  
I am silenced. Utterly shocked. How crude. Before I can retort, he sniggers and gives me some kind of sexy act. Wait. His acts are not sexy. No matter how wrong that sounds.  
  
"Stop doing that!"  
  
"Doing what? Making your pants feel hot?"  
  
"Yes! No! No! Stop talking to me."  
  
I can practically hear that brilliant white smile. "Sure. Don't call me. I'll call you."  
  
"That sounds so cliche. But it's so you."  
  
"But well, we're one and the same."  
  
"Whatever. I'm going to have a bath."  
  
"Cold shower? I got an imagery." He laughs evilly, like always before, and I just say, "No cold shower, call me whatever I'm not asking you to. Bye."  
  
With a slam of my phone, I run from the room into my bathroom, with all sorts of imagery myself, of stupid, sly Jericho and his innuendo. The comfort was already there, but she wanted more Trish hurting and to see how it all plays out.  
  
Now, time for that cold shower.  
  
***  
  
A/N: I'm very, very tired now. Thanks for reading. I probably won't update this anymore, but that's what I always say. Review! 


End file.
